Page 51 of Bitter When He Begs

It isn’t even the fact that, no matter how many times I tell myself I’m stronger than this, my body still aches for it.

No, the worst part is that it never fucking stops.

Damon made sure I got through the worst of it, and I hate how much I needed him there. How much I needed someone to watch me when I was at my lowest, when my body was on fire, when my head was screaming for a fix and my hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t even hold a fucking glass of water.

It still isn’t easy.

I still feel it—the craving buried deep under my skin, the ache that hasn’t gone away, the way my muscles lock up when I think about how easy it would be to slip.Just one.Just one to take the edge off, to stop feeling like I’m hanging on by a fucking thread.

But I don’t, because I know how this ends. I know where it takes me, and for once in my life, I’m trying to be smarter than my own fucking instincts.

The guys don’t ask questions. I don’t know what Damon and Roman told them, but no one pressures me to go out anymore, no one hands me a shot at dinner and expects me to take it, no one gives me shit when I turn down a beer.

I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to be the guy who isn’t up for everything. I don’t know how to be the one who isn’t in the middle of every party, isn’t the first one leading the charge, who isn’t the same reckless, indestructible asshole everyone has always expected me to be.

And fuck, I hate that it’s obvious now. I know they see me differently, and that’s the last fucking thing I ever wanted. I don’t want their pity. I don’t want their understanding. I just want things to go back to the way they were. The way they’re supposed to be.

So when the guys say they’re throwing a party tonight, I tell them I’ll be fine. I tell them I’ll stick to the keg, that I won’t touchanything else, that if I need to get away, I’ll just go upstairs. Upstairs is the only no-go zone, anyway.

Damon says he’ll keep an eye out. I don’t tell him I don’t fucking need him to because the truth is, I don’t even trust myself yet. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I step into that party, when I’m surrounded by booze and pills and shit that’s been so fucking easy for so fucking long.

I’ve got this.

And as long as Sage doesn’t show up, I might actually believe it.

The house is already packed by the time I make my way downstairs. Music pounds through the walls, the kind of bass-heavy beat that vibrates in your chest and makes everything feel bigger and louder.

Bodies move through the kitchen and living room, pressed together, laughter mixing with the crack of beer cans and the clink of bottles against countertops. It’s familiar and automatic. The kind of chaos I’ve always thrived in, the kind of distraction that used to make everything else fade into the background.

But tonight, I feel wired. Not from pills or booze—just from trying to keep my fucking head clear.

Damon’s leaning against the kitchen island with a red cup in his hand, his usual lazy, unreadable expression in place. He sees me before I can turn away, tipping his head in silentacknowledgment, but he doesn’t come over. He won’t unless I give him a reason to.

I grab a beer, taking a slow sip, letting the taste settle on my tongue even though I don’t want it. Even though I don’t need it. I have to keep up appearances. No one needs to know I’m counting sips the way I used to count pills, or that I’m keeping a tally in the back of my mind so I won’t go past my limit.

I push through the crowd, stopping to talk when I have to, throwing a smirk here, a laugh there, playing the part I always play, making sure no one thinks anything’s changed. ThatIhaven’t changed.

And then I feel a familiar prickle at the back of my neck.

I don’t even have to look—I know Sage is here. A month later and I’m still so fucking attuned to him it’s pathetic. I should have gone upstairs, closed my door, ignored this whole fucking night, but instead, my eyes move on their own, scanning the room, and—

There he is.

He’s standing near the far end of the room by the couches, drink in hand, his head tipped back slightly as he laughs at whatever Nate is saying. He looks good. Too fucking good.

Hoodie loose around his frame, messy blond hair nearly reaching his shoulders, like he didn’t even try, like he doesn’t have to. His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and he pushes them up without thinking, still smiling, still looking so fucking at ease.

I don’t know what the hell I was expecting. For him to be miserable? To avoid me the way I’ve been trying to avoid him? For him to—what, walk in here looking ruined, looking like I’d gotten to him?

Instead, he looks fine.

Better than fine.

He looks fucking free.

I hate the way my chest tightens, the way I suddenly feel like I need something to get through this night, to make this feel like it used to, to take the edge off.

But I can’t, so I settle for watching. Even when some guy—dark hair, built, taller than Sage—leans in too close, laughs too much, and touches his fucking arm like he’s got any right.